


Between Yesterday and Tomorrow (revised)

by Chimerari



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011), Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy - John Le Carré
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon, Fix-It, Gen, Love Letters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 21:55:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chimerari/pseuds/Chimerari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one in which Bill escapes to Soviet union, and writes gushing letters</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Yesterday and Tomorrow (revised)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Between Yesterday and Tomorrow (Chinese Translation)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5970169) by [kiii17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiii17/pseuds/kiii17)



> Written for ttss-kink prompt: bill/jim; bill escapes to the soviet union, jim follows.
> 
> Some information are taken from the book, see the notes at the end

January 23rd, 1975

Dear Jim,

 

     I do not expect this letter to reach you. These days not a damn fly can leave my house without being thoroughly searched, which is why I’m writing in good old English, not French, or German, or the coded games we used to play—the first word from each line, remember that? How you apparently laughed for a full minute when you worked it out.

I should probably apologize for the manner of my departure. Must have been quite a shock for everyone. I still bear the scar in my left hand. It was disappointing how little blood came out from a flesh wound. Staging one’s murder is never easy, is it?

I remember that day vividly, the night-time sky streaked with salmon pink, the city still in slumber. One minute I was lying flat on my back, the next I was bolting up, a useless perfection of silence. I remember saying out aloud: I must flee.

I am a cowardly man, I say it now. Now that I’ve carried to its end a plan so intricate that even Smiley pieced it together too late. Oh I never believed for a second that he was truly fooled, but the duel that had begun long ago ended with me slipping through the net, right under his bespectacled nose. You will agree that the victory was not slight.

So I left everything exactly where it was: all my paintings, my Michelangelo floor (the South corner would never be finished now, a terrible shame. I’d planned it all out you see—lilies, curling up the skirting. They’d go brilliantly with the snakes), my books. Books, Jim, all I have to read here is the bloody Times. A rare luxury in this country, no doubt, but not a single book in sight.

I dressed, bade farewell to myself in the mirror, broke the lock, upturned a few chairs. Did they like the bloody handprint by the entrance? They better, it hurt like hell.

The streets were deserted, which was infinitely upsetting. I wanted to remember London as it always has been: filthy, noisy, ancient and infantile all at once. Girls parading around in white go-go boots, popping gum by the pavements. But alas, on that particular morning, not even a mouse crossed my path.

I would not bore you with the details of my journey. I proceeded by train, then a ferry, then another train. By the time I set foot in Moscow, my pockets were empty save a few coins. So it was terribly kind of my Russian friends to come and collect me from the station.

They put me up in this house, small, but quite pleasant. You’d like it I think. God knows you loved my dingy dormitory more than it deserved. Every morning I have fresh coal delivered here by a gentleman who insists on carrying the basket inside, and takes pleasure in arranging them in a row by the fireplace. You’d think I’m an invalid from the way he offers his assistance so persistently.

I do not miss England much, apart from some friends, mustard, and crickets. What would I give to watch a game in real time.

Write to me, if you can.

 

Bien amicalement,

Bill

 

 

 

March 2nd, 1975

Dear Jim,         

 

I don’t think the letter quite managed to convey your fury. The paper was only punctured through at three places. Frankly, I’m surprised that you read it at all, let alone replying.

Since you didn’t ask, I’m well. The nose bleed I used to suffer from has stopped, the cold must have frozen the vessels solid.

I have a cat of indeterminable gender now, even though it only comes around for food. Devilish creatures they are, smug with entitlement.

You asked a lot of questions, most of which I have no answer to. At least, none that would satisfy you.

As for how I got hold of your address, I always had it. How are you liking the school? The pupils?

 

Искренневаш1,

Bill

                                                           

 

 

April 5th, 1975

 

Damn it Jim, it was a simple question out of genuine concern. Am I not allowed even polite interest in your wellbeing now?

For all that we complain about the British weather, it isn’t much better here. I think I’ve seen enough snow for a life time, far too much, in fact.

The cat sleeps in front of the fire place now. It’s missing a toe on its front paw.

The Kirov Ballet is staging a new production of Giselle. I thought about going, knowing full well that I’d be bored to tears half way through. Emilia was the one who dragged me to most of the shows. I swear women were born with the desire to mould all those around them to their will. Perhaps they are the proof that God is everywhere, and forever watchful.

 

Yours sincerely,

Bill

 

 

July 31st, 1975

Dear Jim,

 

Has the royal mail been exceptionally slothful, or have you been perfecting the many drafts of your last letter?

I’m glad to hear that you’re enjoying your teaching post somewhat. Your young protégé sounds like an interesting sort. Not someone I’d envision your befriending though. But then, you’ve never followed other people’s expectations, have you?

I started painting again. One thing can be said about the Russians is that they have an innate sense of style. Given the chance, I’m sure even you could appreciate the stark beauty of the landscape. After all, a man can be an enemy of other men, of the beliefs of other men, but not of a country: not of mountains, streams, sunsets. To answer an earlier question of yours, thinking back, I believe my motive was an aesthetic choice as much as anything.

Are you planning on taking up teaching as a career? You always did have a gift for languages.

Do write.

 

Bill

 

 

 

December 20th, 1975

Dear Jim,

 

I take the long silences in between your correspondence that you have not forgiven me. I cannot offer you anything, whether in words or in action, to compensate for what you’ve been through. Just, for pity’s sake, consider this: what would you have done back then? What would you have done, when your Hungarian friend succeeded in giving you my name (whichever one, you knew most of them anyway). Would you have informed Control straight away? Or would you have come back to London, to be the lone judge and prosecutor of my crime? Would you have spared me the inquisitors and allowed me a swift exit? I know you, Jim. Your sense of duty would have tramped your sentimentality eventually. This conversation would have happened in a cell in Sarratt, or perhaps, between you and my headstone. Is that what you want, Jim? To have my blood on your hands?

 

 

 

May 17th, 1976

 

Jim, ma patrie et ma bohème2, I’m sorry. Write to me soon, please.

 

Yours Hopefully,

Bill

 

 

 

June 20th, 1976

Dear Jim,

 

Words cannot express how thrilling it was to receive your letter, short as it was. It’s probably one of the things that used to annoy me about you. All those six-page long letters I sent you during the summer, and only getting a postcard in return. I used to throw the cards in an empty drawer and never looked at them again (for another week, at least).

Do you remember Oxford during Trinity term? Waking up to days getting longer and longer? We spent so much time outside, the passage of time could be marked by the shade of your shoulders alone: freckled, honey-hued, then dark. Whereas I looked like a cooked lobster more often than not.

Tell me about your day, for I have few tales of my own. I am healthy, incurably healthy, no aches and pains that can warrant any form of self-pity.

Yesterday, the cat let me scratch its chin a few times before it ran away. Should I give it a name? what do you suggest?

 

Yours

Bill

 

 

 

July 25th, 1976

Dear Jim,

 

We are a right miserable pair. You do not want to talk about the past. I, on the other hand, hardly care about the future. The present will have to be enough for us.

My dear friend, you have many redeeming qualities, but you should never be allowed to name anything. I feel sorry for your future children already. (No, Jim, Greek mythology is not an appropriate inspiration for cat names)

Any budding romances in your life? I imagine you still to be the tall and silent stranger that draws all eyes. Did I tell you that you were frequently featured in the Mothers’ tea-time gossip? 3 I never joined in, mind you. No one wants the truth anyway.

 

All my best,

Bill

 

 

 

October 4th, 1976

Dear Jim,

 

We’re at it again, aren’t we? Every time I feel we’ve made some progress, you take us back ten paces. And here I am, trying to re-establish a two-way communication. At least, I would like to assume your silence indicates nothing more sinister than your refusal to forgive and forget. Speaking of which, I’ve had a lot of practice, and am getting rather good at it.

I know the past is nothing but a burden to you. But please, allow me the luxury of reminiscence for once. It’s all I can do lying in bed, with nothing but the radio to keep me company. (doctor’s orders, minimal exertion, I’ll tell you about my little foolish act someday)

It’s the small things that stay with you, isn’t it? Walks along the duck pond; you running down the corridor, jumping onto my back; reading notes in each other’s bed and falling asleep there; my doomed exhibition, what was it called? ‘Real or Surreal, an oxford eye’. The critics tore me to shreds, rightfully so, and you throwing the reviews away before I could get my hands on them.

~~Has it really been that long since I kissed you? Since I felt you tremble beneath my fingertips?~~ I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned that, forgive me. I could start the letter all over again but I’m running out of ink.

There is something so very limiting about being human: we’re bound by our skin, tricked by words and gestures, restricted by moralities and codes and isms.

I dream of seeing the world as a nameless outsider, belonging to no men or governments, before it eats itself away in greed.

Send me a few books if you can, Jim. You’ve always been the generous one out of us two.

 

Bill

 

 

 

November 10th, 1976

Dear Jim,

 

Unfortunately the book didn’t come through. For once I’d like to read your letters before everyone in the bloody Centre does. What secrets could we hide in between the lines? Broken dreams and glory long gone?

Fingers crossed that they’d be kind enough to let my new painting reach you. It’s been a while since I drew anything that wasn’t absolute shit. I’m rather proud of this one really, the cat was even worse at sitting still than you.

I hope you’ve moved out of that dreadful caravan of yours. Now that you’ve become a permanent staff at that fine institution, surely they could afford to house you somewhere other than a dip in the ground?

Back home this is when the annual stress about Christmas would creep in. I’d start to worry about what gifts to get for my numerous cousins. None of that here, thank god for small mercies. I might get a real tree for the living room though. I’m feeling positively festive this year. Cooking is still beyond me, think I might try out Control’s punch recipe. No shortage of alcohol in this house.

What about you Jim? Any plans?

 

Amitiés

Bill

 

 

 

December 16th, 1976

Dear Jim,

 

It’s been almost three years since I’ve arrived here. Three years of waiting in vain, for trust if not gratitude. At least they’ve stopped rummaging through everything that comes through my front door.

I thought I knew why I did it, now I’m not sure. Visions always look better from a distance. Get too close and you might just end up on the other side of it.

But enough of that. School holiday must have begun. I can imagine your mantelpiece being filled with clumsy, handmade Christmas cards—‘To Monsieur Prideaux, our favourite teacher’. Blushing boys shuffling into your office bearing gifts, eh? Tedious end-of-year reports? I got ‘constantly interrupts class’ once, mama was appalled.

 

Merry Christmas

Bill

PS: Thank you for the pear drops. They are lovely. I shall happily trade more of my drawings for candies.

 

 

 

January 26th, 19774

Dear Jim,

 

You are back, I presume, to terrorizing school boys. Will you spank them when they offend you with their atrocious pronunciation? Come to think of it, you’ve probably built up a tolerance from listening to me. You were just too polite to object. Must be refreshing to be surrounded by such innocence. I for one am tired of second-guessing every passing comment, every look that lingers. Miss Sachs, I thought of her today, wonder how she’s doing. You remember her, one of the few people who actually liked me. It is warming up, I’ve learned to appreciate the softening of the biting cold. Will send you another piece of my art soon. Be gentle with it. Good day.

 

Bill

 

 

 

January 27th, 1977

Dear Jim,

 

Please ignore my previous letter. I was, to put it mildly, intoxicated, and my pen seemed to have developed a mind of its own. You will forgive a man for his drunken rambling, won’t you? It was a childish whim, nothing more. We shall never speak of the incident again.

Seems like as one gets older, one becomes more sceptical of his decisions. I’m not talking about the obvious here, I meant the whole murkiness of my chosen career; dragging you into it with me5; my misplaced romanticism in politics and revolution. Oh Jim, by what I thought was the better part of my nature, I’ve been betrayed.

You were right in saying that I should get out more. I ventured into town a couple of days ago. There was a bar, a few groceries dotted around, a barber’s and a bakery. I exhausted all possible stops of my tour within ten minutes. The bakery didn’t have any scones, I was bitterly disappointed. A street musician was playing the accordion, a withered man with a grizzly beard and exactly four teeth. The tune was comically chipper amidst the grim faces. I gave him all the change I had.

Hope you are well.

 

Bill

 

 

 

March 11th, 1977

Dear Jim,

 

What a wonderful surprise it was to bump into you last week. We must have looked like old loons, staring at each other across the street. Rabbits in headlights.

I’m sorry that you could only stay for the weekend. On the other hand, I hardly have the heart to deprive the pupils of their only decent French teacher.

If I appeared anything less than ecstatic during our reunion, I assure you it was due to nerves. I hope you didn’t mind having to share the bed. The couch wouldn’t have fit a grown man by any stretch of imagination.

You looked well, Jim, better than well, where are you hiding that damned portrait of yours? I liked your hair longer, it gave you more of an artistic flair. You certainly appeared to be in good health. I was left breathless after the walk, you didn’t even break a sweat. Still running in the mornings, then?

I’ll definitely need to stock up the pantry. It was mighty embarrassing to have only coffee or vodka for my guest.

The cat liked you. He gave me disappointed looks all morning, reproaching me for having lost his new friend already.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for making the trip.

 

Yours,

Bill

 

 

 

April 18th, 1977

Dear Jim,

 

I have followed your advice of ‘drink less, eat more, get out of the house’ with variable success. I haven’t had a drop of alcohol for the last three days. You’ll have to excuse me if my handwriting is even less desirable than usual.

The books you brought me were finished within a week. I’m on the second round of re-reading each. You wouldn’t happen to have the complete Grimm’s fairy tales, would you? Now that I have all the time in the world, might as well indulge in some harmless nostalgia.

When it gets warm enough I can do a couple of landscapes for you. I know you always preferred what you called ‘real art’ to the contents of my head, spilled out on canvas.

But come now, Jim, be honest. What went through your mind when you saw me for the first time after so many years? Pity? Disgust? Regret? Anger? I’ll tell you exactly how I felt: part joy and part horror. I was half expecting you to draw a gun out of that heavy coat. I thought, if only my mouth could cry out in delight, before a bullet shattered it, I’d be content.

Has Easter holiday started yet? My memories are getting hazy.

 

Yours,

Bill

 

 

 

May 16st, 1977

Dear Jim,

 

Out of all the reactions I expected from you, I have to admit, disappointment didn’t feature high on the list. And yet, this admission cuts me deeper than you might think.

Disappointment. Jim, should I be flattered that you thought me bigger than the sum of my parts? That after all these years, you still pictured me to be a better man?

Well, I’m not.

I am exactly the creature that’s staring back from the mirror: aging, frail, hollow eyed. I don’t particularly like me either.

I am rotten meat that was once covered in diamond dust. I am a handful of ambitions unfulfilled, a whole lot of desires uncalled-for. I am a lean and hungry hyena, and you’re disappointed because you finally saw the ribs and teeth.

Reality is always more complex and inadequate than illusions.

Now the veil has been lifted, do you still want anything to do with me?

 

Bien à vous

Bill

 

 

 

May 18th 1977

Dear Jim,

 

You say you don’t know why you continue to indulge me by replying, but I do, Jim, I do. You want my sins laid bare; you want my confessions and disillusion; you want to do-over the past; you want what ifs.

And I honestly don’t know what I would have done, if we could turn back time. That’s the truth for today.

I’m not doing a very good job of reconciling, am I?

Then how about this: hello, my name is Bill Haydon. I like soft suede shoes, debates, cricket, and have a weakness for striking profiles. Do a bit of painting in my spare time. Semi-own a cat called Mumbles. In need of a friend. How do you do?

I’m well, but my hair is going white by the minute. It’s heart breaking to be betrayed by one’s scalp, but what can you do? Next time we meet, if there is a next time, you’ll look like the kind nephew calling on his reclusive uncle.

                              

Your new friend,

Bill

PS: Yes, Mumbles. A perfectly acceptable name, thank you very much.

 

 

July 2nd, 1977

Dear Jim,

 

Again, it was great to see you. We certainly talked more this time round, which was a relief. I’d hate it if our face-to-face conversations were forever reduced to monosyllables.

Gifts for me and Mumbles? You’re spoiling him already. Do not expect his feline heart to swell with fondness. He’s rarely seen these days. I believe he’s acquired a new lady friend. Like his keeper, he’s easily distracted by good looks.

We could brave the train if you intend to visit again. I believe we’ve sampled all the sight-seeing this town has to offer.

My curiosity has been piqued by your avoidance of the subject, Jim. You know you could tell me if there is a special someone in your life, right? It will fill me with nothing but happiness.

Take care, my friend, and hope to see you soon.

 

Yours,

Bill

 

 

 

August 10th, 1977

Dear Jim,

 

In my experience, when people say something isn’t really for them, it means they haven’t tried it. Or, in your case, completely oblivious to all your admirers. Remember how it took you two years and an ill-coordinated kiss to realize my intentions were less than pure? You really were pretty hopeless.

Why am I so insistent you ask. Well, because us humans are not meant for a solitary life. You’ll find that companionship doesn’t need to be built on honesty, or even the bright burn of love. There was a girl for a couple of years before I left, her guileless presence was soothing, to say the least. You should listen to your own advice: leave the house more often, and learn to have some fun.

I could hardly recall any school plays I’ve been in. Is the cast limited to pupils only? They should certainly make an exception this time. Three whole months at the drama club was quite a record for you. It will be a shame to let those skills go to waste, wouldn’t you say?

How’s Jumbo6? Have you managed to instil a backbone in him yet? It’s intriguing that we should have the same name, and yet be the opposite of each other. Which one is the better Bill, I wonder.

 

Amitiés

Bill

 

 

 

September 19th, 1977

Dear Jim,

 

Don’t be absurd. I have it on good authority that people still find you desirable. Really, there has to be a middle ground between your self-doubt and my swollen ego (so I’ve been told, on multiple occasions). Even back in Oxford, you saw yourself as little more than an athlete. Nowadays you notice nothing but the scars, the broken back.

But let me tell you: you are, one of the bravest, stubbornest, most endearing men I’ve ever met. Please don’t make me break out in embarrassing verses again, I’ve done it once already, to Fanshawe.

In short, you’re a complete idiot for not realizing your worth.

I’m glad to hear that Jumbo still comes to visit regularly. He’s a good kid. I shall cast aside my prejudice against chubby men in glasses.

Which reminds me, there is one more apology I need to make. I should have made an effort to contact you after. I’m sorry. I didn’t, because of guilt. It was bad enough to hear it from Toby. I just couldn’t stomach the thought of facing you.

 

Yours,

Bill

 

 

 

October 24th, 1977

Dear Jim,

 

How could you tell that I’ve been drinking again? Guilty as charged I’m afraid. In the process of cutting down though, I promise.

Mumbles is back from wherever he disappeared to, proudly displaying a new set of scars. I hope he’s won the fair maiden’s heart at least.

I’ve stopped turning on the radio. The Kremlin is giving the country daily shots in the arm with its grand predictions. Admittedly, I’m much better off than the average civilian, whose winter diet consists of cabbage, frostbitten potatoes, garlic and bread. Not to mention the hideous queues outside shops. I have fruit and meat delivered to my door on a weekly basis. They seem determined that I should have a good time—enjoy all the material comfort of your retirement. And don’t you go wandering off.

Don’t laugh, but I’ve only recently taken up photography as a hobby. I went all the way to Leningrad for these. It was quite an adventure. You can probably tell which one is my favourite.

Do you ever regret not having any children of your own, Jim? Or have the little devils at school put you off the notion entirely?

 

 

 

November 26th, 1977

Dear Jim,

 

Of course you are more than welcome to spend Christmas here. You needn’t have asked. I thought it would be cruel to drag you half way across the world to join me in exile, otherwise I would have invited you months ago.

See, now you’ve rendered me incoherent with glee, I hardly know what to put in this letter. December can’t come soon enough, as far as I’m concerned.

It’s not difficult to imagine what parenthood is like when there are plenty of nieces and nephews to keep you occupied. To be quite honest, I much prefer them like that—mostly absent. I was worried on your behalf since you were the only child. You’d make a terrific father, I believe.

Mumbles keeps wanting to get into the dark room and see what the silly human is up to, now that I’d spend hours developing my films. The noise the shutter makes frightens him, so the best I could get is an empty space with the tip of his disappearing tail.

There is a chess club in the next town over. I wonder if that’s a justifiable excuse for getting a car.

 

Bill

 

 

 

Dear Jim,

 

Pathetic, isn’t it? Your train has just left the platform and I was already composing this in my head. Even though I have no intention of posting it. I just need something solid to reassure myself that the past fortnight hasn’t been a fragment of my fevered imagination. Besides, it feels natural to address all the noises in my head to you.

It was good: the trip to Moscow, the sledge ride, picking up bits and pieces from the market. I would have been perfectly content to have you within touching distance. Then you had to top it all by pressing your lips to my forehead, a whispered Merry Christmas.

I’m sorry if I got snot on your cheek. It was all your fault, I haven’t wept so much since…well, never.

There were no words to describe those breathless moments, those shivers of recognition. If I tilted my head just right, the years and months would simply crumble away: fir and hearthrug, the sheen of golden, sweaty skin, the wicked curve of your smile, young and fearless. The same Adonis who stole my breath away in a crowded bar in Oxford.

And yet, and yet I was still hopelessly drawn to the painful arch of your shoulder, here and now, the lines around your eyes, the specks of grey climbing up your temple, mortal and blemished and utterly perfect.

I wanted you to burrow into my bones and never leave. I wanted to pin you down with my body and pretend you were all mine, once again.

 

 

 

January 12th, 1978

Dear Jim,

 

I’ve started and re-started the letter so many times the floor looks snowed under.

First of all, hope you’ve had a pleasant journey home. Ready to play the stern schoolmaster for another year?

See what you’ve done now, Jim, you made the days after miserable in comparison. It’s scary how quickly I fell back into the habit of waking up next to you. Mumbles is missing having your knees to curl up against.

I’ve been thinking things through these past few weeks. They’d never let me come back, not Moscow, and certainly not the Circus. I’d be a hunted man from both sides. We humans are such curious creatures: we’ve been to the Moon, and we’re still fighting an imaginary war.

But perhaps, in a few years’ time, when you are ready to retire from teaching, we could meet somewhere in the middle. Prague maybe, or Paris? A little hut hidden away in the Alps.

Just keep that thought in mind, for me.

Be brave, Jim, the adventure could start now.

 

Yours always,

Bill

**Author's Note:**

> 1 Искренне ваш: Russian for yours truly  
> 2 ma patrie et ma bohème: taken from ‘Laeti et Errabundi’, a poem Paul Verlaine wrote after learning the death of Arthur Rimbaud. Roughly translates to: my homeland and my bohemia  
> 3 mothers: a term used in the books, referring to the typists and secretaries within the Circus  
> 4 In case I didn’t make it clear in the next letter, read the first word of each full sentence.  
> 5 In the book, Bill Haydon was the one who recommended Jim to a Circus recruiter, Fanshawe, while the latter was still studying in Oxford  
> 6 Jumbo: In the book, that’s the nickname Prideaux gave to his pupil Bill Roach
> 
> For additional A/N, go here: http://chimerari.livejournal.com/27945.html  
> [Tumblr me folks](http://rosengris.tumblr.com/)


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